


Scars

by Magnetism_bind



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 12:45:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1267084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/pseuds/Magnetism_bind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos is careless in battle because all he cares about is afterwards when Aramis tends his wounds. Eventually Aramis notices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

The boom of gunpowder fades in the distance as the smoke falls away. Porthos stares up at the sky. The ringing in his ear dies a little as he shakes his head.

“That was too close.” Aramis wipes the sweat from his brow. He glances over at Porthos, before pressing a hand to Porthos’s shirt, watching as the man winces. “You’re wounded.”

Aramis pulls his shirt open, ignoring Porthos’s protests, to inspect the wound. It’s only a shallow cut, but it’s bleeding freely.

“This needs attention.” Aramis murmurs. He can feel the heat from Porthos’s skin against his hand. There’s blood on his fingertips.

“It’s nothing.” Porthos brushes his hand away, but Aramis persists.

“Hold still.” He pulls his handkerchief from his pocket, pressing it against the wound. “That will have to do until I have a chance to stitch it up.”

“If you insist.” Porthos shrugs.

Aramis sighs. He reaches for Porthos’s hand and places it over the handkerchief. “Just try not to bleed to death till then.” He scoops up his hat from the ground and knocks the dirt from it.

* * *

It’s still bleeding though not as heavily by the time they get back to the musketeers’ garrison.

“Sit on the table.” Aramis gestures at him as he goes to fetch his kit.

Porthos settles himself on the table, planting his boots on the bench. The sun is bright. The ringing in his ear has finally stopped. He reaches for the jug of wine left over from last night and takes a swig. The pain from the wound doesn’t even touch him.

“You’re too careless.” Aramis tells him as he returns. “This is the third time in a month that I’ve stitched you up.”

Porthos ignores him, taking another swig.

“You can’t keep taking risks like that.” Aramis pulls his hat from his head, setting it aside on the table. “One of these days the musket ball will be swifter than you.” He places the cloth and the bowl of water to one side, the needle and thread to the other. His movements are always so precise. Porthos has watched him perform this ritual more times than he can count.

“Never.” Porthos raises the jug again.

“Porthos, I mean it.”

There’s earnest concern in Aramis’s eyes. Porthos pats him on the cheek. “Very well. I promise I’ll be more careful next time.”

It’s a false promise and Aramis knows that. He brushes Porthos’s hand away impatiently.

“Don’t joke about these things. Get your shirt off.”

“Since you’re so impatient to get your hands on me.”

“Hah, you should be so lucky.” Aramis reaches for the brandy to disinfect the wound. Porthos strips off his shirt. The wound truly isn’t that deep, but the blood is still flowing from it. The brandy stings as Aramis presses the cloth to his chest, staunching the blood.

Aramis shakes his head, and sighs. He wets the thread, readying the needle. Porthos watches the movement on his tongue. Then the needle is threaded and Aramis is ready. Porthos takes a sip of wine, letting it roll down his throat as Aramis places his left hand on his chest, leaning in sew the wound.

Every time Porthos can’t decide whether or not to close his eyes. At times it is enough just to feel those light, dexterous fingers on his skin, easing the pain in his body, if not the longing. But then he misses the chance to see Aramis like this, completely intent upon his wound. His face serious for once, true concern written on his handsome features. Never is Porthos so certain that Aramis does care for him as in these moments. He can almost pretend it’s the kind of love he desires.

The needle pierces his skin, and Porthos winces automatically, gazing at Aramis’s face. Aramis works quickly, sewing a row of neat stitches upon Porthos’s skin. Aramis’s hand is so warm upon him. Porthos wants to lean into his grasp.

“Hold still.” Aramis’s grip on his side tightens and Porthos does his best. He can barely feel the needle lacing his skin. And then the wound is bandaged. Aramis’s touch lessens, and now all Porthos will have is the scar to add to his collection.

“There.” Aramis leans back, his hand still on Porthos. “Finished.” He smiles.

And Porthos has the wild desire to kiss him. Would it ruin things so completely if he did? Would this be the end? He can’t risk it.

“My thanks.” He brushes Aramis’s hand away before he can be tempted to bring it to his lips.

“Porthos, I simply mean…..you need to take more care.” Aramis catches his arm, smiling at him. “What would I do if something happened to you?”

“No doubt you would find comfort in the arms of a caring lady,” Porthos says curtly. He reaches for his shirt. The front is bloody but he pulls it on anyway. He needs a drink.

“Porthos, Porthos!” Aramis stares after him, uncomprehending his friend’s abrupt departure.

* * *

Unsurprisingly Porthos seeks the comfort of the darkened tavern room. It’s noisy, but he buys a bottle of wine and retreats to the corner. At least here he can drink in peace.

After a while Athos joins him, sinking into the seat opposite him.

“You can stay as long as you don’t talk.” Porthos raises his bottle once more. He’s in no mood for talk.

“And what has driven you to this today?” Athos inquires. Usually he’s the one seeking solace in the bottle. Porthos drinks for pleasure, but there’s little enjoyment in him tonight.

“What did I say about talking?” Porthos growls, taking another drink. His bottle is nearly gone.

Athos shrugs. He eyes him, eyes the bottle, and then signals to the barmaid. “Another bottle for my friend and I.”

Porthos waits until she’s gone and nods to him. “My thanks.”

The barmaid returns, bringing two cups as well as the bottle. Athos pours himself a cup and then pushes the bottle over towards Porthos. “Well?”

Porthos leans back in his seat. “What is there to say? Nothing will ever come of it.”

“I’ve never known you to back down from a challenge, Porthos.”

“This is no challenge. This is …foolishness.”

“All of life is a challenge,” Athos tells him. “The fact that we rise every day to face it is sometimes all we can do.” He takes a sip.

“That’s both encouraging and bleary.” Porthos observes.

“You’re welcome.” Athos murmurs. “Now tell me, why you’re so afraid of showing your affection.” It must be love for Porthos is unafraid in all things. The only time Athos has ever seen him doubt himself is when it comes to matters of the heart.

“Is it hard to believe…he can never-” Porthos cuts himself off. “What’s the point of telling?”

“It seems like you’re selling the other gentleman short.” Athos observes. “And I find it hard to believe that you would bestow your affections on one undeserving. Now, D’Artagnan perhaps…”

“You would think that.” Porthos murmurs. He’s weary of the whole situation. He presses a hand against his chest. It aches. The phantom touch of Aramis’s fingers haunts him still.

Athos gazes at him. “Sometimes the pain is more comfortable than the alternative.”

Porthos lifts his eyes. “Is it?”

“No.” Athos says after a moment. “But it is the way of cowards and you, my friend, are a coward after all.” _As am I._ Athos keeps that part to himself. He holds out a bottle with a sigh.

Porthos accepts it.

“In love only.” Athos adds, the faintest of smiles upon his lips.

Porthos chuckles. “Perhaps I can live with that.”

* * *

“I don’t know what’s wrong with Porthos these days.” Aramis complains as he walks along with D’Artagnan. “He’s been more careless of late. He’s always reckless in battle, but after that last fight-”

D’Artagnan snorts at this. “ _He’_ s reckless?”

“I take calculated risks,” Aramis tells him, “Porthos flings himself into the fray without any thought of the consequences, like it doesn’t even matter. The only time I’m certain he’s alive and safe is when I’m patching him up afterward.” Even in those times there’s always a painful moment where he wonders if he’s dreaming, if Porthos is gone and he’s left in a world bereft of his friend’s presence.

“Well then, there you go.” D’Artagnan skips around a puddle.

“There I go, where?”

“I don’t know.” D’Artagnan blinks.

Aramis sighs at him. “Were you even paying attention?”

“Yes, you said that Porthos was reckless and I found it amusing.”

“Enough.” Aramis eyes him. “I will deal with this on my own.”

“Good.” D’Artagnan avoids another puddle. He has no clue what Aramis is on about, but he hopes it gets sorted quickly. It’s rare when there’s any sort of falling out between the three musketeers he’s grown to consider his friends, but he knows by now that they’re strongest when they’re together.

* * *

The next week the musketeers are involved in a brawl with some drunken sailors and while Porthos nearly gets his head severed from his body, there are no actual wounds to mend this time. For which Aramis is relieved and afterwards he says as much.

They’re at a corner table in the tavern. Athos is still reporting to Treville and D’Artagnan has gone home to his room in the home of the lovely Madame Bonacieux (Aramis has a private bet with himself how long it will be before they’re lovers.)

Porthos merely shrugs at him. “They weren’t much trouble.”

“They nearly had your head.” Aramis stares at him. “That’s troublesome.”

Porthos sits back in his chair. “I barely stretched my muscles.”

Aramis shakes his head in disbelief. “I don’t understand you. When you’re bleeding afterwards you act like it was the best fight we ever had. And now when you’re perfectly safe and there’s no need for me to treat your wounds,” He stops for now Porthos is looking most uncomfortable.

“Porthos.” Aramis nudges at him. “Did you hear me?”

“What?” Porthos growls, still unwilling to meet his gaze.

Aramis stares at him, and then he thinks about what he just said. “Porthos, are you doing this simply so I’ll-” He doesn’t know how to end that sentence.

“You’re mad.” Porthos declares, rising to his feet. He goes over to the bar leaving Aramis alone at the table.

Aramis sits back, trying to work this out. He thinks about it, thinks about Porthos’s many wounds. Every time he’s mended them, Porthos goes so very still under his hands. How often he gets wounded. How those are the only times when Aramis touches him freely and without thought, every touch done purely out of concern.

Porthos is still at the bar so Aramis follows him there. “Why have you never said anything?”

“I don’t know what you’re on about.” Porthos clasps the cup in front of him. He won’t look at Aramis.

“Don’t play the fool with me,” Aramis hisses, “And don’t take me for one either.” He leans in closer. “Porthos, do you truly desire me?”

“Ah, because everyone must desire you? Of course.” Porthos chuckles. “No one could resist your charm.”

“Show me someone who hasn’t.” Aramis counters.

“This man standing before you.” Porthos drains his cup and stalks out of the tavern.

Aramis fishes a coin out of his purse and pays. By the time he’s reached the street Porthos has vanished into the night. Aramis swears under his breath. Why would Porthos not tell him? Why would he keep a secret like this? Unless he thinks Aramis doesn’t desire him in return.

For once Aramis is uncertain as how to proceed next.

In the end he returns to the tavern, still puzzling over the matter, and trying to decide what would make Porthos think he wouldn’t want him back.

* * *

It’s much later that Athos arrives and comes over to his table. “You look like hell.”

Aramis makes no response as Athos takes a seat.

D’Artagnan joins them a moment later, bringing a fresh bottle.

“Today went poorly.” Athos remarks. He gazes at Aramis. Still no response.

D’Artagnan leans back in his chair. “I thought they had Porthos there for a moment.” He makes a cleaving gesture and for a second, Aramis can’t breathe.

“I’ll be right back.” Aramis gets up.

He goes out the back to piss in the alley. The sky is clear above his head. Aramis shakes the last few drops from his cock and stares up at the night. With a sigh he returns to the tavern. For a moment he pauses, watching Athos and D’Artagnan in conversation. He hears them mention Porthos and moves in closer to listen, staying out of sight.

“Buy the ale and stay quiet.” Athos directs.

D’Artagnan does. “What’s up with Porthos? Why isn’t he here?”

“He’s pining for an unrequited love.”

“Indeed. And Aramis?”

“I wouldn’t worry about Aramis. His passions fade with a few weeks’ time.” Athos takes a sip.

Aramis stiffens. Is that what they all think? Is that what _Portho_ s thinks? He tosses a coin to the tavern keeper and turns to go.

Athos catches sight of him and sighs. “Damn.” He rises to go after him.

“What?” D’Artagnan looks after him.

“Always think twice before you speak of another’s love.” Athos’s already following him out of the tavern. “Aramis, Aramis, wait.”

“Leave me alone.”

Athos grabs his arm. “I didn’t mean what I said.”

“Didn’t you?” Aramis is bitter. “You think I’m a fickle, careless-”

“That’s not what I said.” Athos says sharply. “I mean in your affairs… your affections are often easily given. And I wouldn’t want you give Porthos false hope.”

“Do you think I would do such a thing?” Aramis demands. He searches his friend’s eyes. “Do you?”

Athos sighs. “Not intentionally, no.” He gives Aramis a rueful look.

Aramis sighs as well. “What should I do?”

“Be sure before you speak.”

Aramis looks slightly contrite. “I may…have already questioned him on the matter.”

“God help you.” Athos mutters.

* * *

Porthos lies awake in his bed gazing at the ceiling. There’s a half empty bottle balanced on his chest. He’s pretending that it’s a game. If he doesn’t spill it, then he’ll wake tomorrow and find today was just a dream. Aramis hasn’t guessed his secret and things will continue as before.

He touches the bandage, remembering how Aramis’s hands had held the cloth there. The bottle tilts and he catches it just before it spills.

Perhaps he will be lucky this time after all. He raises the bottle to his lips.

* * *

Aramis manages to wait until the next morning before he finally goes to confront Porthos. He stands there in the hall, gathering his courage before he raises his hand. It takes four knocks before Porthos finally pulls it open.

“Why’re you here?” Porthos half closes the door again.

Armis catches it with his hand. “Porthos, we need to talk.”

“I see no reason for conversation.”

Aramis raises his eyebrow, eying him. “Don’t you?”

Porthos shrugs, but at last allows him entrance. He moves aside while Aramis stands there in his room, gazing around.

“About what I said last night.” Aramis hesitates, pulling his hat from his head. He flattens the rim with his thumbs. There has to be a way to say this so that Porthos understands.

“There’s no need.” Porthos reaches for the bottle that still has a drop left in it.

“There is.” Aramis stares at him. “Porthos, you’ve risked your life time and time again for a good cause. I won’t have you throw it away for something so senseless.”

“And I won’t have you thinking you can give yourself out of pity.” Porthos says curtly. “Now go away.”

“Pity?” Aramis repeats. “Is that what you think this is? Porthos, I could never pity you. I,” He cuts himself off. It’s still hard to say the words.

“What? You what?” Porthos demands. “Love me like a brother? Is that what you were about to say?”

Aramis kisses him. Porthos stands completely still. Firm, warm lips upon his, Aramis’s mustache brushes his cheek. This is unbelievable, unreal. This is a dream. His lips part and Aramis deepens the kiss, leaning closer. If this is a dream, may it last forever.

“Is this the kiss of a brother?” Aramis murmurs. “Or a lover?”

His words return Portho to his senses. “Aramis, don’t.”

Aramis raises his hand to touch Porthos’s cheek. “I know which I want it to be.” He can’t bear it.

Porthos pulls away. “Don’t play the seductive game with me, Aramis.”

“I didn’t think I had to.” Aramis steps back. “What is it? Why will you not accept what is right before you?”

“Because I don’t believe it.” Porthos says.

Aramis stares at him.

“You think you’re doing this because you pity me or whatever reason you’ve given yourself,” Porthos’s voice is hoarse with pain, but he forces the words out. They must be said. “But tomorrow you’d wake up and you wouldn’t desire this anymore.” _You wouldn’t want me._

“Enough.” Aramis’s tone cuts through him like steel, causing Porthos to flinch.

Aramis sweeps up his hat. “When you stop being a coward and decide what you truly want,”

“A coward?” Porthos repeats dully. “Is that what you think?”

“Yes,” Aramis snarls. “This the only time I have known it to be true.” He goes out, slamming the door behind him.

Porthos sits down on his bed. _A coward. In love only._ He remembers Athos’s words, but they hadn’t filled him with rage such as this, or such despair.

He picks up the bottle and smashes it against the wall.

* * *

He doesn’t see Aramis for a few days. There are no impending duties, no reasons he has to. Porthos stays alone in his room until he knows he has to show up at the garrison.

When he does there’s only Athos and D’Artagnan waiting in the courtyard.

“Here.” Athos holds out his hand. “We’re drawing straws.

Porthos selects one, but doesn’t look at it. “What are we drawing for?”

“To see who has to pluck Aramis from the arms of his current paramour and tell him we have to go on patrol.” He offers a straw to D’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan breathes a sigh of relief at his choice.

Porthos glances at his and curses.

“Ah, the short straw.” Athos smiles at Porthos. “What a pity. Good luck.”

Porthos drops his straw in the mud with a sigh. “Where is he this time?”

“Gisette.”

“Of course.” Porthos sets off

“I’d be careful. He’s been there for the past three days.” Athos calls after him.

“Do you really think it’s safe to send him there?” D’Artagan questions, watching Porthos stride away. “Supposing…”

Athos shrugs. “We can only wait and see.”

* * *

Three days. They hadn’t spoken since then, not since Aramis left his rooms. Porthos’s lip curls. The man must have flung himself straight into the arms of the nearest available courtesan.

Gisette does her business in a house not far from the musketeer garrison. Porthos raps on the front door with his fist and pushes it open.

The old woman who keeps the house looks up at him. “What do you want?”

“Gisette. Which room?”

She wipes her hands on a greasy towel. “Upstairs, but she’s busy.”

Porthos ignores the woman and goes up the stairs. There’s no sound from the room. He takes a deep breath and knocks on the door. There’s no response so he pushes it open.

Aramis raises the arm stretched across his eyes to gaze at him. “Go away.” He lowers it again.

Porthos wrinkles his nose in disgust. The room stinks like sex, stale wine, and sweat. “Get your clothes on. We have patrol duty.” He has seen Aramis naked enough times not to swoon at the sight. This time he’s too irate to care.

Aramis sits up, scratching at his chest. “Where are my,” he looks around the room in a vague manner.

Porthos scoops up his shirt and throws it at him, hitting him in the face.

“Thank you.” Aramis stands and admittedly, Porthos has to look away as slowly the shirt is lowered to cover his cock.

“Going already?” Gisette appears in the doorway. “I brought more wine.”

“It will have to wait until next time.” Porthos tells her.

Aramis tugs his breeches on next. “Ah of course, next time.” He pulls up his suspenders. “Gisette, you see, doesn’t have to be wooed like a blushing milkmaid.” He reaches for his boots.

“That’s because you paid her.” Porthos says, blunt as ever. He looks at Gisette. “No offense.”

Gisette shrugs. “None taken.”

“Still.” Aramis pulls his uniform on over his shirt. He fastens his belt over his hips, reaching for his hat. “Until next time.” He kisses her, letting her hand wander fondly over his backside. Porthos counts the cracks in the floorboards and doesn’t think how it would feel if that were his hand wandering so boldly.

“Come on then,” Aramis strolls past him.

Porthos tips his hat to Gisette and closes the door.

They stride through the street in silence, neither willing to speak first.

“Nothing to say?” Aramis ventures at last.

“It’s nothing to me what you do.”

“Of course not.”

* * *

“Unlike some people, Gisette at least,” because of course Aramis can’t keep his mouth shut, “knows what she truly wants.”

“Money.” Porthos says sotto voce.

“At least she’s easily satisfied.”

Porthos shrugs. “Or very good at pretending she is.”

Aramis’s face tightens.

D’Artagnan moves closer to Athos. “What did we do to deserve this?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you think God hates us?”

“Very likely.”                             

* * *

The patrol is uneventful, until they’re accosted by a band of thieves.They fight well enough for common thieves, but are no true match for the musketeers.

Still one of them gets a decent knife throw in, catching Porthos in the arm. The knife sinks deep and Athos turns swiftly, running the man through. The other thieves scatter, disappearing in the trees.

D’Artagnan starts to head after them.

“Leave them!” Athos shouts, turning to look at Porthos.

“Porthos!” Aramis reaches for Porthos before he knows what he's doing. It’s instinct. He pulls the knife from Porthos’s arm and fresh blood courses down. Aramis grabs his cloak and wraps it around Porthos’s arm before he catches sight of the man's face.

Abruptly Aramis pulls back. "No. I'm not doing this again."

"Aramis," Porthos pleads. "I didn't do it on purpose."

"Tell that to someone who believes it." Aramis catches the reins of his horse and swings up into the saddle. Porthos stares after him as he rides back towards Paris.

"What was that about?" D'Artagnan comes up to him. "How’s your arm?"

"It's nothing." Porthos bunches the cloak tighter around his arm. His entire arm aches, but he sets his jaw against the pain and says nothing at all. D’Artagnan gives Athos a look, but the musketeer signals him to hold his tongue.

They ride back to Paris in silence. There's no sign of Aramis when they reach the garrison.

Athos starts to say something but Porthos ignores him. He goes up to his room and shuts the door.

“Well then.” Athos pulls his gloves off.

“He needs that wound looked at.” D’Artagnan tells him.

“I know that.” Athos doesn’t bother to hide the exasperation in his voice. He’s heartily tired of his friends behaving like this.

“What’re we going to do?”

"I don't know."

* * *

There’s a rap at the door. “Aramis, let us in.”

"No." Aramis mutters. “Go away, D’Artagnan.”

Athos pounds on the door as well. “Aramis, open up.”

It’s Gisette however who opens the door to them. "Please take him away. He's not even doing anything.” She steps back, letting them see for themselves. “He’s simply lying there and being useless."

“I’m not going anywhere.” Aramis mutters from the bed.

"You have to come.” D’Artagnan tells him. Gisette stands there in the doorway, arms folded as she watches them try to convince him to go.

“And why’s that.”

“Because Porthos isn't letting anyone tend his damned wound." Athos says flatly.

Aramis half sits up at that, and then sinks back down. "Well, that's his choice then."

"Damn it, Aramis.” Athos seizes him by the arm. “Are you really going to let him die because of your stupid pride?"

"My _pride_?” Aramis stares at Athos, “It's his stupid pride.” He shakes Athos off and stands. “I went to him. I kissed him. He didn't believe my feelings were true. He thought I was doing it out of pity."

"Then try again." Athos says simply.

Aramis turns to look at him.

That’s all Athos says, but it’s all he needs to. Aramis sighs and nods. “Very well. I’ll try.”

Athos squeezes his shoulder. “Good man.”

* * *

Aramis crosses himself before he opens Porthos’s door.

“Porthos.”

Porthos looks up at the sound of his voice, but says nothing. He’s slumped in his chair, Aramis’s cloak still wrapped around his arm. By now it’s crusted with dried blood.

Aramis removes his hat and takes out his kit. Porthos remains silent, watching him as he lays it out, same as always.

At last he speaks. “Thought you weren’t doing this anymore.”

“Well, I couldn’t let you bleed to death, now could I?” Aramis keeps his tone light as he reaches for the cloak. He unwraps it, inspecting the wound. It’s nasty, but he’ll do his best.

Porthos leans over to pick up a bottle of wine.

Aramis takes it out of his grasp and pours it over the wound. Porthos hisses, but Aramis ignores him and pours some more.

Porthos grits his teeth as Aramis dries the wound. This time he closes his eyes. The memory of Aramis’s hands will have to be enough.

Aramis bandages him up briskly. He pretends he's paying no attention to how stiff Porthos is, how Porthos won't quite look at him.

"There." He wipes his hands on a cloth, then stops. "Porthos, look at me."

"You can leave now." Porthos snags the wine bottle now that Aramis is done with it.

Aramis hesitates. "Do you want me to?"

Porthos sighs and looks up at him. "No." He can’t lie to Aramis, not when he’s looking at him like that.

Aramis smiles.

It’s his smile that first made Porthos realize he loved his friend. That smile is what he longs to see every day, and now here is Aramis, lips curved full of affection, smiling straight at him.

He stands, gazing at Aramis, not quite allowing himself to dare to hope.

Aramis takes a step closer to him. Tentatively he touches his hand to Porthos’s jaw, looking him straight in the eye.

“I swear to you, Porthos, on my honor as a musketeer, I would not do this if I did not truly desire it as much as you.” His thumb strokes over Porthos’s lower lip. “If not more.”

He presses his lips to Porthos’. Porthos is still and then he leans into it, his lips meeting Aramis, pulling Aramis in.

“Your arm.” Aramis murmurs.

Porthos ignores him. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters. As do all your wounds. And there have been many.” Aramis steps back. “Promise me you will never be so careless again.”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“Are you going to kiss me again?” Porthos strives to sound nonchalant, but he can’t quite manage it. It matters too much what Aramis is going to say in return.

Aramis stares at him, and then laughs. “I will kiss you a thousand times if you will give me that promise.”

“I give it gladly then.” Porthos’s voice is husky.

Aramis’s hand tangles in his shirt, pulling him closer. This time the kiss lasts longer, and Porthos feels it down to his bones. His blood is on fire. When he places his hand on Aramis’s chest, he can feel Aramis’s heart beating against his hand as though they were running into battle together.

“Porthos, Porthos.” He draws back. “Come, let me look at you.”

“You’ve seen me before. You know my skin as well as I do.”

“But this time there’s no need to worry.” Aramis murmurs.

Porthos feels a pang. While he knows that Aramis truly does worry for him, he has never thought of it like that.

Aramis removes his belt and tunic, stripping down to his shirt and breeches.

“Here,” He kicks off his boots, tugging at Porthos’s shirt. ”Take this off.”

Porthos obliges by removing it. Aramis’s eagerness sends a giddy thrill through his heart.

“Lie down.” Aramis tells him, pushing him towards the bed.

Porthos does, settling on his back.

Aramis kneels between his thighs, surveying him. “It’s true.” He declares. “I do know your skin as well as you. Probably better. I know each of your scars. This one for example.” He touches the scar on Porthos’s hip. “I treated this one.” He rubs his thumb over the scar before leaning down to kiss it. “And this,” his lips meet the scar on Porthos’s chest next. “And this.”

There are many scars on Porthos’s body. The few that Aramis wasn’t there for he makes Porthos tell the origin, stirring his past, his childhood, the days Porthos often cares not to talk about.

“And this, so nearly lost.” Aramis taps Porthos’s throat. “You would look terrible without a head.”

“Says you.” Porthos’s skin is heated from all of Aramis’s kisses. His cock has long since hardened, but frustratingly, Aramis is frustratingly paying it no mind.

Aramis lowers his head to trail a series of tantalizing kisses along Porthos’s throat. His hair brushes Porthos’s cheek and he raises his hand, carding his fingers through it. The other slides down to cup Aramis’s backside.

“Aramis.”

“What?” Aramis grazes his teeth over a nipple and Porthos tightens his grip.

“Don’t make me wait forever.” Porthos murmurs.

Aramis gazes at him, then leans up to kiss his mouth again. Every time he kisses Porthos it’s a new dawn. A thousand times Porthos has seen his friend bestow these lips upon another and now they are kissing him. He can scarcely believe it’s true.

At last Aramis draws back and stands up. He slips out of his breeches, discarding them careless on the floor. His shirt is next, and then at last his drawers. Porthos pushes himself up on his elbow, watching him as Aramis stands there naked, looking around his room. Porthos is not the only one with scars.

“Ah, here we are.” Aramis comes up with a small jar of oil. He returns to the bed. “Get your breeches off.”

Porthos obeys, shedding them and underclothes in one quick movement. He returns to his place on the bed and Aramis joins him.

“What’re you doing?” Porthos starts to ask, and falls silent as Aramis dips his fingers in the oil, reaching between his legs. Aramis winces slightly as he stretches himself. It has been some time since he’s needed to and Porthos is no small man. He looks up to see the man in question just staring at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Aramis pushes further, curving his fingers. There, that will have to do for now. He looks up at Porthos. “Well?”

“Come here.” Porthos reaches for him, tugging Aramis into his lap. His cock brushes Aramis’s belly as he kisses him.

Aramis wraps his arms around him, his lips raining kisses along Porthos’s skin.

Porthos shifts him, holding Aramis on his lap, nudging him just above his cock.

“Come on, Porthos.” Aramis nips at his ear. “Don’t make me wait forever.”

With a groan Porthos eases him down on his cock. Aramis’s grip on his shoulders tightens.

“There.” Porthos smirks, satisfied. Now he knows what it takes to silence Aramis’s quick tongue. They move in tandem, breath rising and falling quickly. Aramis is golden like this. Porthos threads his fingers through his hair and kisses his mouth. He will never have his fill of these lips.

Aramis rises himself up, then sinks back down. He’s murmuring what Portho swears is half a prayer, half sacrilege. He cups Porthos’s face, kissing him once more. And then Porthos’s hand slinks between his legs, caressing Aramis’s cock. The sound Aramis makes is sweet to his ears.

Porthos does it again, stroking Aramis until he groans, spilling over his hand.

Porthos grins at him. Aramis gazes at him, eyes dazes, and then they widen as Porthos raises his hand to his lips. He licks Aramis’s seed from his fingers, gazing at him all the while.

Aramis grins. He shifts, setting a faster rhythm, moving his hips to meet Porthos’s, fucking his cock. Porthos lets him. He almost doesn’t care if he ever gets satisfaction. He’s had Aramis.

“Porthos, stop daydreaming.” Aramis’s voice returns him to the present. “Here.”

Aramis rises off his cock one more and slides back down in one long torturous movement. He does this three times and on the third time Porthos comes. His head sinks down upon Aramis’s shoulder with a groan.

Aramis eases off him and they stretch out side by side on Porthos’s bed. Porthos turns on his side, silently watching Aramis as he lays on his back gazing at the ceiling.

“Stop looking at me like that.” Aramis says. He yawns and turns his hand to gaze at Porthos. “My Porthos.”

“Yours.” Porthos murmurs. He wants to say, ‘ _Don’t say it if it’s not true’_ but maybe it’s true in this moment. He brushes his knuckles over Aramis’s face. Aramis smiles, kissing Porthos’s fingers as he settles more snugly against his body.

“Are you falling asleep on me?”

“Shhh,” Aramis murmurs as his eyes close.

Porthos watches him as he drifts off.

* * *

Porthos wakes first, rising before he can be tempted to linger. Yet as he dresses he can’t help watching Aramis, still sleeping in his bed. If Porthos had his way they’d stay here in bed all day, but unfortunately they have to escort the Duke of Lorraine home today and if they don’t, Treville really will have his head.

“Aramis, get up.”

“Shhh,” Aramis murmurs.

Porthos nudges him again. “Come on.”

Aramis refuses to stir, and at last Porthos brushes his lips over Aramis’s mouth, wondering when he dared become so bold.

Aramis opens one eye. “Why didn’t you try that in the first place?”

“Come on.” Porthos fails to hide his smile.

As soon as they’re both dressed, they make their way to the garrison. From there it’s all business. The four of them ride to meet the duke’s retinue before setting off.

There is no time to talk and if there was, Porthos isn’t sure what he’d say. Aramis seems his usual self, whistling as they ride along. He’s not spouting poetry, nor giving Porthos the subtle, but constant attention he usually gives new lovers he’s acquired. He’s, well, Aramis.

At first Porthos is relieved by this, but then he can’t help wondering if it would be better if Aramis was perhaps doing those things? Supposing Aramis thinks that now they’ve fucked matters can simply return to the way they were? Would that be so terrible? There are worse fates.

Porthos rides along, dwelling on it until he notices Aramis dropping back to speak to a girl with a fruit cart by the side of the road. The girl’s laughter fills the air. Porthos sets his jaw, looking away. She’s very pretty and he’s a jealous dog, and this is simply the way of things. It will always be the way of things with Aramis.

He keeps his horse moving at the same pace. Aramis catches up with him. “Here.”

Porthos catches the peach automatically.

Aramis takes a bite and licks the juice from his fingers. “Sweet as they look.” He smiles.

“And where’s ours?” D’Artagnan calls back.

“Get your own.” Aramis tells him.

The peach is warm and smells like summer wine. Porthos smiles and bites into it.

 


End file.
